


Music Has Charms

by alcyone (Alcyone301)



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen or Pre-Slash, Multi, Musical References, Médicins Sans Frontières | Doctors Without Borders, The Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyone301/pseuds/alcyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt by alltoseek: In the 21st century, Dr Stephen Maturin, an Irish physician working in rural Spain, and Captain Jack Aubrey, an officer of the Royal Navy stationed in the Indian Ocean, strike up an unlikely but persistent friendship through their participation in an online forum for chamber music aficionados.</p><p> <br/>Beta:  the awesome alltoseek</p><p>Cheerleading: JessamyGriffith</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteven/gifts).



On a mild spring evening, Dr Stephen Maturin carried his supper, his encrypted personal journal and his notebook out to the tiny deck of his small hut, where he sat down and opened the journal.

 

Journal entry, 18 April 20—, Torelló, Catalunya

> This transitional phase of a relief mission is always difficult, particularly when a natural disaster such as this earthquake has destroyed so much of the local and even regional infrastructure - buildings, roads, communications – as well as casting up such inconceivable numbers of victims, so many injured, so many homeless, soon to be prey to starvation, exposure, disease. There is no uncertainty during the critical unthinking early days of round-the-clock surgery, dealing with the unending sequence of urgent cases, desperate decisions, victims who cannot be helped, and hundreds more waiting, perhaps dying, waiting for rescue, waiting for treatment. No doubts, just do what you can as fast as you can, as long as you can. It’s when that gives way to the beginnings of a resolution, chaos becoming tamed, that doubts return. The days begin to assume a routine, not exactly comfortable, but a level of difficulty that can be maintained indefinitely. Médecins Sans Frontières deploys secondary and tertiary teams, the muddy tents are replaced by newly-built hospital pavilions, storage facilities and housing for the field workers. The critical cases become fewer as the first victims die, recover, or enter the rehabilitation stream. The work becomes more rational, distributing inpatients as new facilities are built, revising early surgeries, triaging the sick, expanding the preventive medicine services, orienting and assigning newly-arrived staff, and starting the process of handing over management and responsibility to local authority, swamped as they are with a whole ravaged territory filled with similar encampments, all with the same urgent and unanswerable requirements.
> 
> It’s at this point that I look up from the many long days and longer nights, finally, draw breath, discover that some weeks have passed almost unnoticed, and wonder why I keep on doing this. I have done a number of these volunteer missions with MSF – partly to indulge my insatiable curiosity about the world, its cultures and its inhabitants, flora and fauna, and partly because as a humanitarian with a sense of responsibility, and being the fortunate possessor of the requisite skills and the disposable time to use them, I could not do otherwise. This mission, especially, in this locale. But it is at this stage, when I am no longer needed to the same extent, when I have to yield up my responsibilities (and I do realise my reluctance to do this contributes to my current inward disquiet), that I want to go home to Taoibhcoille, close the door, sleep in my own bed, hear my own native birds, talk face to face with friends, hear live music, read late knowing I can sleep late. 

He put down his pen and slowly ate a handful of olives, considering, then picked up the pen again.

> Yet the work, demanding though it might be, and less suited to my tastes and skills, is nevertheless still critically important, and with my personal comfort so much improved over the early conditions, I can hardly complain. Indeed, how can I justify feeling dissatisfied or indulge in my fundamental melancholia when I have every proof of my own good fortune in front of me? I have this hut, now, which keeps me warm, or cool, as required; its solid roof keeps me and my few possessions dry and safe; I have a cot for sleep and a deck for air and camaraderie - this last where I am just now enjoying my supper, tonight a wedge of hard yellow Garroxta cheese, a dish of olives, a _barra de pan_ , and a litre of Glops _fumada_. There is a velvet softness in the evening air, a host of bright stars seeming to hang low over the hills; I can hear a choir of _Luscinia megarhynchos_ in the trees and smell a variety of wildflowers. This dinner, these sights, sounds and smells, are all evidence that I am indeed in the comforting Mediterranean home of my youth. Perhaps I may even have time, soon, to walk out and explore a little – there are many small orchids on the hillsides, some of them unfamiliar. And I must not omit to mention, among all these blessings, that I have electricity, and even, at times, an internet connection. 

With that he turned to the notebook. Habitually content in solitary pursuits, he nevertheless preferred to enjoy music in company; he therefore resorted to the online community http://music-has-charms.songwidth.org/ whenever he could access the internet.

 

He had founded the comm with a few friends some years earlier, the little management it required being informally shared. The focus was chamber music, the founders being amateur musicians with an interest in ancient, early, and classical music. The comm had hosted a number of wide-ranging, engaging discussions, on topics such as trends in the performance of early and ancient music, newly-recorded composers, the construction of instruments, and promising young performers, as well as the expected preponderance of wandering discussions of nothing in particular, and a good deal of gossip.

Tonight he indeed had an internet connection, and logging on, he found the discussion of the lost Locatelli quartet still flourishing. He had last visited the comm two days earlier, so he scrolled back a few pages and slowly absorbed his supper while reading.

The discussion had started with a query to the comm, quoting a passage from a classic novel, a passionate, eloquent description of a piece identified as a Locatelli quartet: ‘Can anybody tell me what this might be? What is the author thinking of?’

Some of the more sober members of the group, Gabrieli for instance, had declared that as Locatelli wrote no quartets as such, the discussion was meaningless, and the famous literary reference which had sparked it referred to an entirely imaginary composition, or perhaps attempted with limited success to describe a real piece of music. Others, including a good many performers, maintained that the description was good enough to identify the piece, had it been any work generally known, occasionally resorting to speculation that the author had obviously found a manuscript, or alternatively had heard it performed, perhaps in Italy in World War II.

A middle ground was occupied by a few people, notably Padraig, who methodically explored variations on the mistakes the author might have made. The most obvious, of course, was the number of players, but his speculation ranged through the composer, form, number of movements, and tempi. 

The arguments had gone back and forth for some time, and Stephen himself had recently advanced the proposition that the author may have deliberately disguised the piece, out of a strange coyness, perhaps; he was mildly curious as to this argument's reception.

There had been the usual set of responses to this, rather predictably conservative or passionate according to the nature of the commentator. Stephen's attention was arrested and his curiosity piqued, however, by the following maiden post:

Goldilocatelli: _Charming discussion, very intrigen. If I didn't know better I'd think you are alright. [g]_

Gabrieli had replied: _Yes, we are fine. Or did you mean 'all right'? We can't all be correct._

Goldilocatelli: _Well, you aren't anyway. ')  
I heard this piece some years ago, pretty sure. As far as I can remember, it fits the description – it was definitely a quartet, too. _

A flurry of posts had followed this, most of them saying, ‘Are you serious? What, where, when?’ in a variety of ways. 

Goldilocatelli: _Sorry to say I don't remember where, exactly. I see a lot of music. It was a long time ago, LOLO, in the Med for sure._

There had been another barrage of posts, mostly expressing doubt with varying degrees of subtlety. 

Goldilocatelli: _No, really, a good memory is mightier than the sword, you know._

A remarkable number of members had a surprising lot to say about this, much of it vituperative.

The newcomer had not posted for more than twenty-four hours, and the discussion from the regulars was now mostly mutual reinforcement about liars, idiots, and trolls.

Stephen put down his half-finished meal and posted:

Linus: _Goldilocatelli and my friends: I am unwilling to deny the possibility you (Goldilocatelli) may be correct – possibly I am led astray by my sincere wish that it might be so. Can you be more specific about what it is you remember?_

He had no real hope, as the fellow seemed to be trolling, and had in any case apparently moved on. But to his surprise an answer came back several minutes later:

Goldilocatelli: _I remember wondering in the allegro that the book was opening before me. I smiled all the way through it._

A performer: _Not sure I understand you._

Gabrieli: _wtf does that mean?_

Linus: _Don’t mind Gabrieli, he’s always rude. We put up with him because he’s remarkably well-informed. Will you tell us more? Perhaps you would be more comfortable describing this in your native tongue?_

There was no response to this, and Stephen eventually logged off from the increasingly tiresome tail-chasing discussion, spending a few more minutes on his journal before retiring for some much-needed sleep.

 

Journal entry, 18 April 20--

> ... had an irrational and scarcely acknowledged expectation of something extraordinary about to happen all day, so when a newbie on MHC claimed to have heard the lost quartet my heart leapt. It doesn’t seem probable, I must admit, but stranger things happen every day. However, for today’s special event I will have to be content with the long-delayed arrival of the supplemental shipment of tetanus toxoid. 

~∙~∙~∙~

April 19

 

Stephen had thought about the comm, briefly, several times during the day. Returning to his hut, he assembled a supper and logged on. The discussion was not materially different from the one he had left the previous night, several pages later, though more threadbare. 

He reviewed some of the previous days’ exchanges as he ate, then posted: 

Linus: _Are you there, Goldilocatelli?_

Gabrieli: _Just a troll, he’s gone._

Linus: _What if he’s in earnest? What if he is right?_

Gabrieli: _In your dreams. I wish you would admit the whole thing is a chimaera, and do something useful for a change._

Linus: _ha ha._

Goldilocatelli: _I have to regret not expressing myself well. You might say I am somewhat unused to civilised discourse, more accustomed to the casual usage (and I may say the good will) typical of the internet to excuse any errors. But however my native tongue is English._

Linus: _I beg your pardon. No offense, I trust?_

Padraig: _Good will, typical of the internet ????????_

After a few minutes, the newcomer responded.

Goldilocatelli: _No. No, I suppose you must be forgiven. But it would be so much easier if i could just **play** the blasted piece for you, rather than trying to describe it. I did hear it, or something very like, you know. _

This was greeted by a torrent of responses, most of them skeptical or even outraged (‘How many instruments can you play at a time?’), overwhelming his own response encouraging the stranger to continue. Stephen waited patiently, finishing his supper, working on an article on reconstructive surgery in field hospital conditions, and checking the comm every few minutes.  
But Goldilocatelli had disappeared again. 

 

Journal entry, 19 April 20--

> … always somewhat relieved to return to the hut, still seeming luxurious after living under canvas for a month. Tonight I was more eager for the comm than for supper and bed, and pleased to find I again had access, two nights in a row. Whether the gentleman with the awkward username has anything substantial to tell us or not, I don’t yet know, but it would be the pity of the world to miss such a chance. 

~∙~∙~∙~

April 20

 

Early the following morning, Stephen sent a private message to the newcomer.

PM from Linus: _I blush for my comm-mates. Please do not take offense, or at any rate please have the goodness to stay in touch. I very much want to pursue this subject. I would welcome anything you can tell me about this piece._

Around midday, when Stephen was occupied as usual in the hospital, there was a reply. 

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Yes, ok, what do you want to know?_

Responding that evening, Stephen posted:

PM from Linus: _Anything you can tell me._

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Ok, I heard it probably ten years ago. I’m not sure where. I said the Med on the comm, but I meant that in the broadest possible sense, just an approximatation._

PM from Linus: _Can you say anything about the venue? Describe it?_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Oh. Yes. It was a small place, a village church maybe? I spent some time backpacking around the pyranees and I have an idea it might have been then. Definitely not a concert hall, but great accoustics. Darkish. Not a huge crowd, maybe 30 or 40 people._

PM from Linus: _Do you remember what language they were speaking?_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Good one. But no, I don’t. It wasn’t French, or I would have remembered more, beyond that I couldn’t tell you._

PM from Linus: _And the music?_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _I’ll think about it. Later, ok? Busy day._

PM from Linus: _Yes, ok. Good night, and thank you for this._

 

Journal entry, 20 April 20--

> … He seems perfectly earnest. I can’t imagine the answer would be this simple, but I will certainly pursue it. 
> 
> Beatriu’s leg is swelling. It’s beginning to appear cyclical. Lymphatics seem ok, no sign of infection. There may be some shards we failed to find. I dread having to take her to surgery again. 

~∙~∙~∙~

April 21

PM from Linus: _Did you get a chance to think about the music?_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Yes. The first movement: allegro, I think. It had a sort of spiralling theme, ending at G below middle C. Up and down the fingerboard, inversion, crescendo/decrescendo, with a deferred resolution until the final chord._

PM from Linus: _Have you any means to convey this? You play, I believe?_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Yes, the violin. I see you play cello._

PM from Linus: _So I do. Goldilocatelli - may I call you Goldilocks for short? lol._

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Have we known each other long enough? LOLO!_

PM from Linus: _Ah … Goldilocatelli, then._

_Music makes all men brothers, they say._

_This theme, could you play it for me?_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Might. I’ll get back to you._

PM from Linus: _Ah, wait -_

 

But he was gone again. 

Stephen looked at his barely-remembered profile on Songwidth, reading ‘cofounder of MHC, amateur cellist and music historian, physician with a history of frequent missions with MSF; he begs those who enjoy the comm to express their appreciation by means of donations to Médecins Sans Frontières.’ 

 

Journal entry, 21 April 20--

> … warmer today. I am eager for the summer – selfishly, because greater heat can only bring greater difficulty controlling disease, and worse conditions for food storage – but I feel ten years younger in hot weather, and ten years happier as well. 
> 
> I have the strangest notion, when exchanging messages with Goldi, that I’m missing something - we are not speaking precisely the same language. He makes a baffling comment, and darts away. Odd behaviour, but I’m convinced he’s perfectly sincere, for no good reason beyond intuition. I don’t think he’s bashful; possibly hyperactive, or perhaps just unused to discussing music _sensu stricto_ \- which is hard enough to do in all conscience, even for those of us who have been at it for years. 

~∙~∙~∙~

April 22, morning.

 

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Sorry, I keep having to go do much less interesting things. I have a little sketch of part of the first movement, the first theme. How do I get it to you?_

 

Stephen found this message well down the page when he turned on his computer the following evening.

 

PM from Linus: _I too have demands on my time, sorry._

PM from Goldilocatelli: _So I see. Are you in Catalonia?_

PM from Linus: _Yes, how -??_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Guessing. It’s one of the most active MSF missions just now. That’s kind of brilliant of you._

PM from Linus: _It seems worth doing. At the moment I am panting to hear your ‘little sketch’. In what form is it?_

PM from Goldilocatelli: _I recorded it on my mobile. I did some more this afternoon, waiting for you to answer._

PM from Linus: _Give me five minutes._

PM from Goldilocatelli: _it isn’t anything cohearant you know. Don’t expect too much._

…

 

PM from Linus: _Okay, go to FindingLocatelli@songwidth.com. The password is PietroAntonio1695. _

_It’s private, nobody can access it except me and anyone you choose to give the address and login to._

PM from Goldilocatelli: _Ok, here they come. Talk tomorrow?_

PM from Linus: _Yes, indeed._

 

Stephen spent a restless few minutes pacing about the little hut, straightening his meagre belongings, waiting for the upload; then, his heart, ludicrously, beating high, he went to the FindingLocatelli page. Rapt, he listened to the set of short recordings there. 

The first was a twelve note sequence, repeated and then inverted, breaking off suddenly. The violin was perfectly in tune, the tone mellow, the notes clear and accurate, and the deprecating comment that followed – ‘That’s all I have, so far,’ was delivered in a deep, mellifluous, British-accented voice. 

The second clip started with that same voice: ‘I remember least about the 2nd movement. It’s largo, a dialogue between cello and viola. There was a variation with a very graceful intertwined melody, part of which is like this:’ followed by a passage with fragments of a melody appearing now in a higher register, now in a lower. 

Another clip: ‘Third, minuet: very pleasant, something like this:’ – a charming run of phrases. 

‘The fourth movement was quite complex. It started in this sort of manner’ - playing a stormy little run - ‘then there was a long difficult stretch I can’t put my finger on, and then towards the end, a decrescendo to solo violin, pianissimo,’ he played a fragment starting from nowhere, going nowhere, intriguing. ‘Then each instrument enters separately, volume building. I particularly remember the cello entry,’ represented by a set of quick notes played on the open strings of the violin. ‘I remember that, alright, even though you can’t really appreciate it in isolation like this,’ the beautiful voice continued, ‘and then:’ the violin restated the stormy first theme, ‘and that resolved in a quite brilliant set of variations which I can’t quite bring to mind. But this morning I could remember only a little bit of the first movement, and now as you hear, quite a bit more, so I believe in time I can give you still more.’ 

 

Stephen listened attentively to these clips two more times before he logged off, turned off the lights and retired, lying in his cot relaxed but very much awake well into the night.

\--=ooOoo=-- 


	2. Chapter 2

\--=ooOoo=--

April 24

Stephen rose early the following morning and before leaving for the hospital he logged on and left a message for Goldilocatelli. 

PM from Linus: _This is very exciting. I have to be elsewhere, alas. Email is_ _linus@gmail.com_. _Or you can post on FindingLocatelli._

\- email from  goldilocks@gmail.com :  
          _I have a couple of ideas, check in later, ok?_

\- email from linus@gmail.com :  
          _Ha. I see why you were amused when I asked if I could call you Goldilocks._

~∙~∙~∙~

April 24, evening.

 

\- email from linus@gmail.com :  
          _This is very compelling, what you uploaded to SW. Do you really think you could remember more?_

\- email from  goldilocks@gmail.com :  
          _Oh, yes, I would say so. I remembered more as I was doing the parts I recorded for you and I generally find my memory for music           is pretty sound, even if it takes a while to hit on the true line._

          _Do you have a phone connection?_

\- email from linus@gmail.com :  
          _Sometimes._

\- email from  goldilocks@gmail.com :  
          _Me, too, sometimes. Just thinking ahead. ‘) It would be interesting to discuss this directly, if I can get enough of it down. Play duets          via skype. LOLO._

          _I did some more this morning, didn’t upload it. It’s just parts that I remember from the cello, transposed up._  


\- email from linus@gmail.com :  
          _May I hear?_

\- email from  goldilocks@gmail.com :  
          _Not just yet. It’s still awfully nebullous. I’ll ask for your opinion on it when I can string more than four notes together._

\- email from linus@gmail.com :  
          _That’s a dilemma. What if I confound or contaminate your memory?_  


\- email from goldilocks@gmail.com :  
          _I don’t think that would happen. I have to go – more to come, check the FL site later,_  
       _ok?_

 

Journal entry, 24 April 20--

> One of the arguments for not staying on a mission for an extended period, and for not taking on two missions in immediate succession (at least not two disaster relief missions) is that the combination of stress and isolation plays havoc with one’s sense of perspective. It’s possible that may be partly responsible for the profound excitement I am feeling about what Gabrieli calls a chimaera, but I doubt it. Goldilocks strikes me as sincere and, after hearing those clips, neither unskilled nor unlearned musically, so - it’s possible. The clips are so very tantalising - I am Alice peering through the tiny door into a fantastic, unreachable landscape. 
> 
> And after all, if the beast turns out to be a chimaera, then at least I will have seen Homer’s immortal fire-breather with my own eyes. 

~∙~∙~∙~

April 26 – May 3

Stephen, whose professional focus was normally not far from absolute, found himself thinking about his ongoing discussions with Goldilocks and their subject at odd times during the following week; atypically, he checked his Songwidth page and emails morning and night, frequently finding additional comments and a few times a newly-uploaded audio clip. Two of these clips were what Goldilocks described as a possible cello line, asking Stephen for his opinion; this he refused to give, citing his fear of corrupting the genuine memories, and confined himself to making encouraging remarks. 

By the end of the week, three of the main themes had been extended or elaborated, and Goldilocks had remembered an additional motif from two of the movements.

~∙~∙~∙~

May 4

 

The next day was, atypically, a relatively light one, and Stephen sat down on his little deck in the late afternoon with a bottle of _fumada_ and a sense of relative ease.

There was nothing new from Goldilocks, and Music Has Charms was relatively quiet: no activity in the Locatelli thread; there was a desultory conversation going on between Gabrieli and Cecilia, both amateur harpsichordists, about the plethora of electronic keyboard instruments and which, if any, could be made to sound like what they characterised as the real thing. 

Linus: _Hola, Gabri. I’ll make it easy for you: they’re all inadequate. =)_

Gabrieli: _You expect too much. I keep telling you, you’ll be happier if you learn to live in the real world._

Linus: _It’s pretty real here._

Gabrieli: _No doubt. Did you hear anything further from that fellow, about the Locatelli? I thought about it for a while and decided to invite him to come back. He was so much fun to bait. No answer to my PM, though._

Linus: _Can you wonder? How did you phrase it? ‘Come back, we want to attack you some more?’_

Gabrieli: _No, I told him we enjoy trolls and his was one of the best._

 

Turning to FindingLocatelli, he found a post not twenty minutes old. 

 

Goldilocks: _Have a question. Two questions._

Linus: _Yes?_

Goldilocks: _Was Locatelli ever in southern France? And could he have known Haydn?_

Linus: _Not as far as I know. I think he kept more or less to Italy and Germany, and settled in Amsterdam before Haydn was born. Haydn lived pretty quietly and I believe he never travelled north of Vienna, so no, probably not. Why?_

Goldilocks: _Just trying to sort out my memory. There’s a passage from Haydn that keeps popping up, not sure why. If it isn’t likely to be relevant I will tell it to go away and quit bothering me, ha ha._

Linus: _And does your memory obey?_

Goldilocks: _Oh, yes. I think I will record it first, though, just to figure out what the connection is, later. I mean, people borrowed from each other, right?_

Linus: _You should really come back to MHC. That kind of thing is always good for a debate, who borrowed from whom, was there a common source, how much can be attributed to coincidence, all that. It’s amusing and often very engaging, sometimes even enlightening._

Goldilocks: _Maybe one day. Under a different name, probably._

Linus: _The comm is not usually so inhospitable, you know._

_Why Goldilocks, for all love?_

Goldilocks: _It was a nickname I acquired when I was racing – my hair was yellow and there was a lot of it. It’s short now, has to be for the job, and it ain’t so very yellow now, either._

Linus: _What kind of racing, may I ask?_

Goldilocks: _Yachts. Solo. Is Linus your real name?_

Linus: _No, pseudonym._

Goldilocks: _Why Linus, then._

Linus: _Linus was the brother and in some respects the teacher of the sublime Orpheus; a dedicated but inferior musician._

Goldilocks: _DGAS._

 

Stephen found this surprisingly painful; but reflecting on what he already knew of Goldilocks and acronyms, he waited. 

 

Goldilocks: _This is really interesting..._

_Wikipedia says son of Apollo and a Muse, invented melody and rhythm. Taught his brother Orpheus - should have taught him some common sense, I never understood why a fellow with that miraculous musical gift should be such a loser ... Taught Heracles as well, no good deed goes unpunished, eh? …_

_… and 'the personification of lamentation’. Linus, do you lament?_

 

Linus: _Before I answer that, may I ask what DGAS means to you?_

Goldilocks: _Why, don’t go away, stay. Or something like that._

Linus: _In that case I have nothing to lament about at this moment. Allow me to observe, please, that for many people DGAS stands for ‘Don’t give a shit’._

Goldilocks: _oh. No, I certainly give a shit. I mean, I’m interested, I care. Not far off signing lol, tbh._

Linus: _I think I shall have to ask you about *all* the acronyms you use. Tell me about those two._

Goldilocks: _lol is lots of love, tbh is to be honest._

Linus: _Is the glass half full or half empty? Full, I imagine, for you, so congratulations, tbh is correct. I regret to say, however, that for acronym recognition the majority rules, and in this case most people take lol to indicate ‘laughing out loud’._

Goldilocks: _But that’s LOLO. Let our laughs out. Isn’t it._

Linus: _Actually, I haven’t seen that used by anyone but you. I did get that it indicated amusement._

...

Linus: _I’m flattered that you were thinking of using it, though. =)_

Goldilocks: _well I’m just embarrassed. Here I thought you loved my jokes._

Linus: _I do, I assure you._

Goldilocks: _Oh. that’s alright then._

~∙~∙~∙~

May 7, late night

 

Google led Stephen directly from ‘Goldilocks solo yacht racing’ to an inactive site, several years old, dedicated to the career of Jack ‘Goldilocks’ Aubrey, rising solo yachting star, focussing on his remarkable seamanship. The emphasis appeared to be justified, if unsurprising, as the site was constructed by his personal sponsor, a marine navigational aid and charting company. This site was decorated with a number of pictures of a tall, deeply tanned, radiantly happy young man on a very sleek racing yacht, far larger than what Stephen reckoned could be sailed single-handedly. The young man had what could only be called a glorious mane of bright buttercup-yellow hair. 

It was not hard to find articles of a somewhat later date, enthusiastic or even adulatory, referring to his participation in the Vendée Globe race ten years ago. It was his first circumnavigational race, after several successful transoceanic races; he had been fairly set for at least a top three finish in the gruelling four-month-long race, when he famously turned back in the Southern Ocean on hearing of a capsized, disabled competitor more than a hundred and fifty sea miles behind. The spectacular rescue, a prodigious feat of seamanship and heroism, made an enormous éclat at the time. Jack had finished fifth in that race, and Stephen found no reference to subsequent races at all. 

 

Journal entry, 07 May 20-- 

> Can this be for real? Can someone who can’t spell and makes a hash of common acronyms remember a complex piece of music heard once a decade ago? What are the odds such a person would be an outstanding sailor and a genuine hero as well? And yet I have an intimate conviction that he is telling the truth. 
> 
> Not going to solve anything tonight. It will all become plain, some time or other. 

~∙~∙~∙~

May 8

Linus: _I’d like to see if the phone connection will work. My number is 011-44-5915-343484._

Goldilocks: _Mine is 011-44-4312-343221. FYK, you can’t call in unexpectedly._

Not batting an eye at FYK, Stephen responded:

Linus: _How about now?_

Goldilocks: _Sure._

‘Hello, Goldilocks?’ 

‘Why, Linus, there you are!’ 

‘Ha. It’s Stephen.’

‘Jack.’

‘Good to meet you, Jack.’

‘And you, Stephen. Where do we start?’

‘I’m sorry, you said -?’ 

 

The phone went dead.

 

Linus: _Sorry, connection is poor sometimes. Weather, maybe._

Goldilocks: _I could hear you reasonably well. Try again tomorrow?_

Linus: _Sure. Good night._

~∙~∙~∙~

May 9

The following evening the connection was good, and without any discernible awkwardness they plunged into an earnest debate about the difference between a virgin memory and one that had been revisited frequently; whether or not one’s memory of music was as mutable as the memory of events; and to what extent it would be legitimate to develop a remembered theme in accordance with the composer’s known habits, rather than relying solely on direct memory; in that case, was the result any better than a pastiche? 

In the midst of recalling characteristic Locatelli touches – double stopping, harmonics, trills, and the rapid change between high and low registers - Stephen remarked, ‘Some of these must require overextension.’ 

‘Ha ha, yes. It’s difficult enough for me, I can’t imagine how difficult it would be for someone with small hands. There’s a woman I heard once, though, who was superb, just a little bit of a thing – I kept expecting the violin to fly out of her hands.

‘But - hang on a moment.’ 

There was a pause, and then Stephen heard the violin, Jack playing a passage from Bach’s great chaconne.

‘Still there?’

‘Yes, of course.’ 

‘That’s much more challenging, I find – not so much technically difficult, but trying to understand it. Such a simple form, four measures, four notes. And how profound and varied the things he does with them, the very strange places he takes them.’

Stephen, in full agreement, replied, ‘I read something once that compared the theme to the nucleotides in DNA, a small number of simple pieces, recombining to form - almost anything you can imagine, in this case a glorious creature, maybe an angel. Fanciful, but I know what the author meant. I find performing Bach, especially solo, the suites, both technically challenging – not in a shall we say athletic way, although with a liberal use of difficult stunts - and simple, in the clarity of his thought, transcendent. To whatever extent mere mortals can appreciate it, that is. What do you say to Corelli?’

‘The Follia? Do you know that?’ 

‘I do, but not I believe at your level. How about …’ 

They went on in this vein for some time. 

 

Journal entry, 09 May 20--

> Tonight we talked for an hour or more, starting with how much imagination is permissible in trying to reconstruct the Locatelli quartet, and ranging through what makes pieces difficult to play, favourite pieces and composers – squeeing like a couple of fanboys - he is delightfully enthusiastic and both well-informed and skilled as a performer, far beyond my mark, alas. It was like talking to an old friend 

  
Stephen stared at the page for a while before slowly adding, ‘or a brother.’

  


~∙~∙~∙~

May 10, evening

\- email from linus@gmail.com :

          _New influx of pts, please keep at it if you can, will talk when I get a chance, sorry._

~∙~∙~∙~

May 13

 

On the third day, Stephen had finally gone to his hut, dripping from a shower at the hospital, fell into his cot and slept for fourteen hours. When he awoke, he walked up to the hospital, still groggy, found everything well in train there, and returned to the hut. There had been only a few quick messages in the last few days, and no new posts on FindingLocatelli. 

Linus: _Are you available? telephone?_

Goldilocks: _I could call in half an hour._

Linus: _Please do._

 

Jack opened with, ‘What happened?’

Stephen replied, wearily, ‘There was a shelter and food station, the other side of the mountain, a WFP initiative. One of their buildings collapsed.’ 

‘Sounds awful.’

‘It was. More deaths, and a great many wounded, fortunately not a high proportion of critical cases. Can you imagine surviving a devastating earthquake and then getting caught in a collapsing building two months later? Some of the shock cases were not physically hurt. What have you been up to? ’

‘Not much progress, I’m afraid, but I did one new thing, haven’t uploaded it yet. It’s an attempt to lay the first movement out, like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing, estimating the length of the missing parts and tapping the fiddle to keep the tempo until I get to a known part.’

‘‘I haven’t heard a note of music in three days. Please do upload it.’

‘Yes, I will. It’s interesting, you can see - I mean, hear - the pattern and that the missing part is actually not that much, in the sense that it’s probably basically just a couple of subthemes. I intend to listen to it before I go to sleep a few times and hope my subconscious coughs up the missing parts, ha ha.’

A bit hesitantly, Stephen said, ‘Er .. I should confess that I googled “goldilocks” and “solo yacht racing” last week.’

‘Ah.’ 

‘It’s very impressive.’ 

‘Hm. It was fun, I enjoyed it immensely. The challenge, of course, at that age it was thrilling. I loved the feel of it, being almost in the ocean, being alone in that vast expanse and interacting every minute with not just a wave or series of waves nor just the weather, but being right in it – it’s hard to explain.’ 

‘I can imagine it, some of it anyway. Your voice is quite expressive.’

‘Well, I can hear you’re smiling, too.’

‘Because of your enthusiasm, yes. And the pictures. I can see why Goldilocks. You look very young, and very happy.’

‘Oh, god, I know those pictures. Let me point out that they were taken in a shallow-water harbour, just tooling around, a photo shoot. One of my sponsors insisted. I was delighted with them - the sponsors, not the pictures, those are so wrong - because they were going to give me major support, enough to do the Route de Rhum again. But I would never wear my hair loose around rigging. Plaited and clubbed, for serious sailing. 

‘I loved the navigation – night navigation is wonderful, although in the actual races, most of the time I had to be more exact, pragmatic, depend on technology. But when I was cruising, I loved just watching the stars. Still do.’

‘And you’re a hero, a genuine, certified hero.’

‘It was showy enough, I suppose. It was just circumstance, though, he managed to get an SOS out via the satcom, and I had one, too - some racers did not, they begrudged every gram of nonessential weight. I knew there was a chance to reach him. What was I going to do, just sail on?’ 

‘There was some degree of skill and determination required, I believe. Why do you disparage it?’

‘Oh,’ Jack replied, his voice betraying a strange mix of pride, exasperation and bashfulness, ‘it’s just that nobody ever wanted to talk about anything else, for years, literally. It was a great bore.’

‘Is that why you gave up sailing?’ 

‘I didn’t give it up. I just stopped racing. I still sail, on a different scale. I managed to find a way to be a responsible grownup and still keep in touch with the ocean.’ 

‘Now you are smiling. May I ask -?’

‘Not now, gotta fly. Tomorrow.’

~∙~∙~∙~

Journal entry 16 May 20--

> He shies away from anything that might lead to what he is doing now, and where, so I was surprised at how readily he talked about sailing. It was a real pleasure to hear him recount obviously happy memories. A mistake, apparently, to offer to ask directly what he does. Quaere, is it possible he is in intelligence work, somehow? It doesn’t seem to fit what strikes me as an essentially open and straightforward character. I did another internet search, nothing current, just more references to his sailing career. I will not dig further. No room for covert activity here. 

  


May 17

 

There had been another two or three days of silence. Jack had uploaded the sketch of the first movement, and Stephen had listened to it with fascination; had both emailed and posted on FindingLocatelli, inviting discussion of it. There had been no response. 

Linus: _Jack, is everything ok?_

Goldilocks: _No, need another day or two. Will be in touch. Don’t worry._

 

And he had to be content with that.

~∙~∙~∙~

May 20

Goldilocks: _Call? Any time in the next two hours._

Stephen made the call. 

‘There you are, Stephen. I’m so sorry. How I hope I haven’t lost the thread. What have you been doing? Besides the obvious, of course.’ 

‘Ah, I have been doing a skeleton score from what you have done so far, with blanks where you indicated gaps. It seems to me that to some extent you can project what Locatelli (if it is he) would do with a theme, and from a lead line you can do at least harmony, if nothing better comes back to you. I’m pencilling in some of the cello parts you were humming, too. 

‘Jack, I don’t want to pry, but I repeat, is everything all right?’

‘Oh, I was just tied up with work problems. I, uh, something I had to do depended on a piece of equipment being repaired, which depended in turn on someone else doing his part when we were, uh, getting in supplies a while back, and that didn’t happen. I couldn’t even find out why the bloody thing still didn’t work until my, uh, assistant told me the bastard who was supposed to do the repairs had gone missing - a dago, so they assumed he was taking a siesta somewhere - but he had apparently decided since he missed his deadline he might as well not do it at all and by the time they found him that night he was drunk as an Irish lord and didn’t remember for sure what he had and hadn’t repaired. And my god damned, uh, assistant didn’t see fit to tell me until I discovered it for myself, too late to do anything. So I spent two days trying to do a fifteen minute job the old-fashioned way, as well as, uh, other things, trying to catch up and all that. I hated giving up my evenings working on the Locatelli, to be honest. But I’ve been too annoyed to do anything in that line, anyway.’

‘I didn’t understand much of that, but I’m sorry for your frustration. But, Jack, do you not find that such epithets do not serve you? That they offend where no offense is meant?’

‘What epithets?’

‘Your references to nationalities, and the one about illegitimacy.’ 

‘Oh, yes. Well, I don’t mean them as per - perogative –‘

‘Pejorative?’ 

‘Yes, pejorative words, not really, except maybe bastard, and I don’t mean that to be about birth, so I don’t see how it would offend. I don’t use such language generally, only when I am really angry - and I am, such a stupid cockup - and only among people I know it don’t apply to, and who would know I don’t mean anything by it.’

‘Perhaps now would be an opportune time to mention that I am, in fact, a Spanish-speaking Irish bastard.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. 

‘You’re having me on.’

‘I am not. Is that a problem?’

‘Well, of course it is! My dear fellow, I am so sorry. What a damned awkward blunder. Please accept my apologies.’ 

‘Never fret, now. I am not offended. Sure, there is no malice in your voice at all. But you would be well advised to curb that practice. Many people would be offended, not ... ‘

‘Not?’

‘Not knowing you as I do. I do feel that I know you.’ 

‘Goes both ways, I assure you.’’

\--=ooOoo=--


	3. Chapter 3

\--=ooOoo=--

May 25

Journal entry, 25 May 20--

> We have been using skype in audio mode, which permits Jack to talk violin in hand, making for lively and most enjoyable conversations. He seems to derive a degree of social confidence from the violin in his hands, not unreasonably; he is by no means inarticulate, but the precision and subtlety he can command on the violin is far greater than that of his speech.  
> 
> 
> He has not offered to go to video and I must respect this, in spite of the strangeness. It’s apparent that he is diffident (at least) about his work, so there is a tacit agreement to avoid any reference to it, and by extension to my own. I don’t have the sense of any dreadful secret - it has more the savour of bashfulness. Perhaps it’s something as simple as self-consciousness about his appearance; perhaps he has had a disfiguring accident, for instance. People who have been beautiful, as he has, sometimes give a great deal more thought to such matters than do those such as I, never having had any pretensions to personal beauty at all.  
> 
> 
> The rate at which he adds new parts to the so-called quartet has slowed, however, and I fear we may soon be at a standstill... 

~∙~∙~∙~

May 26

Jack had called, as was becoming a near-nightly routine. There was no advance on the Locatelli piece, and Stephen, unwilling to admit to anxiety or impatience, became discouraged instead.  


‘Has it occurred to you how hopeless this is, how absurd, to think that anyone could put a specific piece of music, let alone an unrecorded, unpublished one, to that description? Impassioned as it is, it’s not very exact, and there are hundreds if not thousands of such pieces, quartets, small-group sonatas, chamber music of all kinds, that the author might have been thinking about. Even if you assume it’s Locatelli, it’s still – just impossible. Even if there was no attempt at disguise.’  


Jack replied, ‘Well, I heard something, and it matches what was described, whatever you choose to call it. It was in the Pyrenees I heard it, and the author lived thereabouts, you know. Maybe someone found a manuscript.’  


‘You have a point, I suppose. Whether it’s the real thing or not, it’s certainly taking shape. Carry on, don’t mind me.’  


Jack played a part of the third movement, now becoming familiar; they talked a little longer, and rang off.  
  


Stephen worked on his paper, but finding himself unable to concentrate, turned to FindingLocatelli.  
  


Linus: _It is a mistake, arrogance, almost a sacrilege, to assume we have discovered everything – we as a culture – the Dear knows we discover new species virtually daily, happily carrying on right under our noses, perfectly oblivious to their nondescript status. The same applies to music, I make no doubt._  


Goldilocks: _I agree. I always feel uneasy when I see a big box of CDs claiming to be the ‘Complete” Corelli or Bach or Mozart._  


_Do you have your cello handy?_  


Linus: _No, I haven’t unpacked it since I got here. It’s still in the main warehouse. Why? I absolutely don’t want to play any of this until you’ve wrung everything you can out of that extraordinary memory of yours._  


Goldilocks: _I thought it would be fun to play something else. Corelli?_  


Linus: _I should like that of all things! I’ll fetch it tomorrow._  


Goldilocks: _ >.< _

Linus: _Something pains you?_  


Goldilocks: _No, it’s .. never mind. Good night._  
  


Journal entry, 26 May 20--:

> The keeping of a journal is a strange pursuit - of course there is the motivation of creating a record, perhaps one I might benefit from reading in some unspecified future - _forsan et haec_ etcetera - and the clear advantage of requiring oneself to bring one’s inner musing into the light, express it in words, even if they are private and encoded words. It helps me to think, sometimes. 
> 
> Another reason: it provides a pseudo-social outlet - it is an ideal interlocutor who will listen to whatever I have to say, patiently, understandingly, forgivingly - inferior only in not being able to contribute to the conversation, one would think. 
> 
> I am discovering I have a lot less to say to my journal these days, proffering many of the thoughts that seek expression to a man I have never met, who listens with evident patience and interest, apparent understanding, undeniable generosity. 
> 
> I have been feeling disheartened, not so much about this project - I am continually amazed and, what is more to the point, persuaded, by the regular, intelligent and apparently genuine additions to our growing library of Locatellian fragments - but about the slow pace of involving local authority, various frustrations in that line, and a growing sense I hardly like to name, that all our efforts with the child will be in vain. I carried this discouragement into my interaction with Jack this evening, foolishly. He dismissed it, overrode what I thought was perfectly reasonable pessimism, played some more of the minuet, I could almost swear with an emphasis on an essential gaiety I had not heard in it before, and then invited me - bade me - to fetch my cello so as to be able to play duets with him. I am amazed at my ready obedience - wherever does that come from? - but I have to say the prospect is appealing. 

~∙~∙~∙~

May 27

‘You have your cello?’  


‘I do indeed, and happy I am to see her again.’  


‘Your speech is oddly formal, you know. You have no accent, but I would almost venture to say that English is not your native tongue.’  


‘You’re still vexed about that crack on the comm, aren’t you?’  


‘No, I swear I’m not, but isn’t that a delightful irony? If true, I mean.’  


‘I have to concede you are – almost right. You have an excellent ear.’  


Stephen, barely registering a snort from Jack, continued, ‘I was raised in a trilingual household and spent my childhood between bilingual Ireland and the multilingual Mediterranean, so I suppose I don’t actually have a native tongue, not a single one, that is.’  


‘I have a little French, but mostly just the two languages.’  


‘English and -?’  


‘Music, oh, ha ha ha!’  


Stephen waited patiently.  


When Jack continued, the grin was perfectly audible: ‘What shall we play?’  


‘Corelli? Something from Op. 5? The Follia might be a bit ambitious.’  


‘The A?’  


‘Certainly. No. 9 or No. 6?’

For answer, after a moment of tuning, Jack began the violin sonata no. 9. They played for some time, with a fine dash and a surprising, immediate communication, through what means Stephen was at a loss to name, as there were no visual cues. Stephen was inclined to be self-conscious - it was apparent to him that Jack was playing down to his level and even below, carefully exploring his range, and doing a good job of not appearing to do so. But it was wonderfully pleasant to play with someone, even under such circumstances, after so long a time.

~∙~∙~∙~

May 29, late night

The concluding notes of a Vitali capritio fading, Stephen turned to the laptop and played three of Jack’s clips of the Locatelli largo, one after the other. After the third, he played the second again, then sat unmoving for a while. He lifted the bow and slowly played a series of whispering, wandering notes; another silence; then, restarting the second clip, he began to play along with it.

~∙~∙~∙~

June 2

Journal entry, 02 June 20--

> … ever better. Jack continues to propose from time to time that we play what he has reconstructed of the Loc4. He seems confident that nothing I could do would adversely affect his memory of the piece and I tend to agree, now that I have seen what he can do.  
> 
> 
> One day I will have to take this step. I suspect there is more to my reluctance than simply leaving his memories alone. It’s a significant step, an acceptance of an objective reality I do not yet - quite - accept. My initial instinctive faith has since been bolstered by innumerable small indications, moments that seem valid, characteristic touches - so many very high notes, for instance, rapidly shifting into the lower registers, the staccato runs, the double stopping - all characteristic, as is the extreme virtuosity it calls for; this is amounting to a conviction that there is an authentic unknown Locatelli composition that Jack has heard and remembers. And yet - still this reluctance.  
> 
> 
> These last nights, after he has retired, I do what I continue to refuse when he asks: I play along with his clips, and give my own thought free rein. The better experiments I record, with an absurdly furtive mien; I feel equally secretive about the scores I am accumulating, viz., the one that is wholly Jack’s work; the one with the best of my private efforts; and a third, which I have contemplated for a while and began only tonight, representing the cello and/or viola part as a figured bass. This has the effect of lending it a spurious appearance of authenticity, permission to improvise an accompaniment to the genuine Locatelli. I should like to try it on harpsichord.  
> 
> 
> Which of course begs the question, will I admit I have been doing this? Why does it feel so inappropriately clandestine? 

~∙~∙~∙~

June 5

A privately-owned 4WD had arrived with a wealth of fresh fruit, enough for even the volunteers to indulge freely. Stephen went to his hut that evening with a grapefruit in his hand, two oranges in his pocket, and a light heart.

There was a new thread on MHC, a guest and Padraig in an enthusiastic discussion of oboe concerti in the first half of the 18th century, touching on the overrepresentation of German composers in the repertoire.  


Linus: _Vivaldi, Albinoni, the elder Scarlatti?_  


Padraig: _Linus, welcome! Missed you the last couple of days, when are you going to get a reliable internet connection? Spain isn’t the third world, you know._  


Linus: _No, apparently not. Fresh fruit today! I rejoice, not solely for the pleasure of the wholesome grapefruit but for the implications: another step in the direction of normalcy._  


Padraig: _As if you would recognise normalcy if it sat down at your dinner table. Would you have time to review a book?_  


Linus: _Maybe in a month or so? What book?_  


Padraig: _I’ll email you, ttul._

~∙~∙~∙~

June 8

‘Why do you think it’s a quartet?’  


Startled, Jack replied, ‘You’re joking. Because four players.’  


‘What instrumentation?’  


‘Why, two violins , viola, cello. You know that.’  


‘You haven’t said much about the viola.’  


‘No, it just doubles quite a lot, takes part in rounds. And dialogues in the largo.’  


‘And the cello?’  


‘Again, a lot of doubling. Sometimes carries the lead.’  


‘So, maybe this is a trio sonata with the continuo shared between viola and cello? Or even a duet?’  


‘It could be, of course.’  


‘I understand this is heresy, but maybe the author did get it wrong – at least to the extent of the musical form?’  


‘A case of Homer winks?’  


‘You mean a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind poet.’  


‘Yes, it’s possible. But his accuracy is legendary. The depth and breadth of his research - to imagine he got something wrong on the very first page – no.’  


‘I think if it is wrong, it’s deliberate. I’ve considered that all along, and I keep coming back to it. To whatever extent the description is inaccurate, it’s intentional, though it’s hard to imagine why he would do that.’  


‘Maybe ...’ Jack hesitated, ‘... no.’  


‘ Say it.’  


‘Maybe, like me, he just heard it somewhere, a village in the mountains, and he couldn’t actually remember the music but just how he felt about it? So was guessing somewhat, about the form and all.’

~∙~∙~∙~

June 9

Jack had been playing the middle variations of the first movement, pausing to comment, sometimes humming along with the violin.  


‘This part goes on into another variation but i don't remember quite how ... ‘  


‘What was that ting-ting?’  


‘Oh, the ship's bell.’  


‘You're on a ship.’  


‘Yes. Did I not mention it?’  


‘You know very well you did not. What kind of ship?’  


‘A research vessel.’  


‘Really? Why so coy?’  


There was a pause, and Stephen heard the faint sound of the violin being set down. ‘I tell you what it is, I didn’t quite like to bring in my profession. I know what you do, and on the whole I find the treehuggers rather look down on, er, professionals. Let me just say, though, that this is a survey ship, not a battleship – no armament to speak of, ha ha.’  


‘I don’t think of myself as a treehugger. Do you mean to say you’re on a Royal Navy ship?’  


‘Yes.’  


‘I would be sorry to think you were reluctant to acknowledge an essential and honourable profession.’  


‘I’m not, not generally, it’s just - I do find some people think of anything military as barbaric, perhaps, and I meet quite a lot of them at concerts.’  


‘So you expect me to share that point of view?’  


‘I thought it possible, yes.’  


‘I don’t. You must be somewhere in the Indian Ocean, I collect? Mauritius?’  


‘Yes, near there, how did you know?’  


‘Just inference, based on when you say good morning versus when you log off at night, that kind of thing.’  


‘Why do you do what you do?  


‘Can’t help thinking.’  


‘No, I mean – professionally.’  


‘Ah. I am fortunate enough to be able to follow my inclinations. I had a practice in Sussex for a while, and then a post at Trinity. But I think humanitarianism is best practiced, rather than preached.  


‘And also ... you asked the other day whether I lament. I confess I do tend towards melancholy. Most unhappily, I am a widower. One excellent reason for the job I do: it gives me perspective. I know I am fortunate, but I can’t always feel it.’  


‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry.’  


‘So am I.’

~∙~∙~∙~

June 14

Journal entry, 14 June 20--

> … finished the Leclair, and then a propos of nothing he suggested video as making it easier to play duets. I found myself looking at an eager, cheerful, florid and rather fleshy giant with bright blue eyes and a singularly sweet smile; he was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt with rank insignia on the shoulders, a uniform, for all love. He cocked his head a little, looking at me with that smile and a charming mix of diffidence and concern, and said, ‘Why, Stephen, there you are. Jack Aubrey, Royal Navy, as you see.’  
> 
> 
> I don’t remember what I said. I’m not sure what my face revealed at that moment, but looking at myself with the webcam just now, what I see is a rather worn-looking, serious, scrawny little man with a white face and pale, keen eyes - which I know often strike people as cold and even reptilian - wearing a disreputable ragged scrub top and denim cutoffs, barefoot.  
> 
> 
> I eventually collected my wits and we adjusted the cams to centre on the instruments and played – so much easier than talking. It was a remarkable session. We played the Veracini with great glee, ending up grinning at one another, all awkwardness forgotten. 

~∙~∙~∙~

June 15

Stephen: _But you are the captain. Good Lord._  


Jack: _Only of a small surveying and research vessel. Why should my rank surprise you?_  


Stephen: _Why indeed? I suppose, because I simply do not associate musical virtuosity and learning of your degree with professional warfare._  


Jack: _There’s plenty of time to practice my music in between slaughtering the innocents, marauding and pillaging._  


Stephen: _Ah. I am suddenly and uncomfortably aware of preconceived notions, stereotypes. Maybe I am a treehugger after all. I beg your pardon, Jack._  


Jack: _S’okay, I’m used to people thinking I’m just a BAMF. But I mostly do surveying, oceanographic exploration, hydrographic research, ice patrol, monitor this and that, try to keep a crew of diverse personalities happy and functioning._  


Stephen: _I hesitate to ask, but what does BAMF stand for, in your mind?_  


Jack: _You know, I’m going to print out a sheet of acronoms and look them all up before using them. Why hasn’t anyone pointed this out to me before? I write a public blog, ffs._  


Stephen: _Jack –_  


Jack: _Sorry, Big Angry Menacing Fellow? DGAS._  


Jack: _I mean DGA ‘)_  


Stephen: _here I am teaching my incomparably superior brother :D :D_  


Jack: _Stop it. Ok, I looked them up. BAMF, I was close, wasn’t I? ffs, I was totally correct. (:_  


_There’s something else I looked up, a while back. I hope you won’t think I’m prying. But I read a bit about some of the missions. Civilised as you are, you are also a warrior, I believe._  


Stephen: _Of a sort, I suppose. But my enemies are more in the nature of universal sorrows, and I don’t command a big high tech boat bristling with guns_.  


Jack: _She’s not a boat, she’s a ship, and she doesn’t bristle._

__

  


\--=ooOoo=--


	4. Chapter 4

\--=ooOoo=--

June 16  


‘Jack, have a look at MHC. I think Padraig’s post from this morning might interest you.’  


Padraig had referred to the Locatelli quartet, saying the author had ‘created a classic musical mystery, a modern-day Fermat’s Last Theorem, and like that perpetual conundrum, the subject of many a mistaken or even consciously false solution,’ but as it was part of a debate about the place of music in literature, there had been no direct response. 

Jack said, ‘He means it’s not going to be solved no matter how much fuss is made, but of course it was solved, 350 years later.’  


‘So I took it to mean. Do you tell me it has been solved?

‘Oh, yes, a couple of decades ago, now. You know the Pythagorean theorem, I am sure. If a, b, and c are the legs and the hypotenuse of a right triangle, a2 +b2 = c2, and that is true for an infinite number of solutions - it’s a law. It can be proven in a great many ways, algebraically, by calculus, and so on, and it holds true in a great many circumstances, too, including in higher-dimensional spaces and non-Euclidean spaces, and it applies to objects other than the right triangle, including to n-dimensional solids. But Fermat just commented that he had proven that this law did not hold true for the higher powers, that is that an \+ bn = cn, or rather xn \+ yn = zn was not true where n was any positive integer higher than two, so -’  


‘Jack - ‘  


‘- people could and did produce proofs that Fermat was right for specific values of n, but for three and a half centuries nobody could prove the general case, until it began to be proven for not just specific cases but specific classes of cases, and then someone noticed a link between Fermat’s theorem and the modularity theorem, which stated that elliptic curves over the field of rational numbers are related to modular forms, and by the way that is still unproven, except for semistable elliptic curves, that part was proven in the course of trying to solve Fermat’s theorem. So then -’  


‘Jack, please, stop.’  


‘Oh -  


‘While I appreciate your obvious enthusiasm, I have no idea what you are saying. You have the mathematics, I collect.’  


‘It was my focus in university, yes.’  


‘It’s another language - that makes three for you, and this one I don’t speak at all.’  


‘So it does. Padraig’s wrong anyway. Would you point that out?’  


‘Why don’t you?’  


‘They think I’m a simpleton, and they have already decided I’m mistaken or even consciously false, as Padraig puts it.’  


‘They aren’t that stupid. They would be so pleased to hear about what we are doing. And you could dazzle them with whatever it was you just said.’  


‘You haven’t told them about it?’  


‘No, I thought -’  


‘You thought right, I don’t want to go there. You could say that about Fermat, though. And you could remind them that it was a collaborative proof, in the end.’

 

Linus, posting on MHC: _I find it encouraging that Padraig likened the Locatelli quartet to Fermat’s last theorem. I was discussing this with a friend of mine, who is a violinist of marked virtuosity with a prodigious musical memory and understanding, btw, and he was good enough to explain to me that Fermat’s theorem has in fact been proven, more than two decades ago. I didn’t understand one word in ten, but I did absorb the fact of the proof, and that it was the result of the combined efforts of many people. If that can be achieved after 350 or so years of trying, why may not we unravel the Loc4 mystery? It’s been less than 50 years._  


Gabrieli: _Oh, not that again. Linus, my lad, when will you stop believing in things that do not exist? Truth, love, the complete Poetics, the Locatelli quartet?_  


Linus: _Surely you will admit it is not possible to prove the negative, in any of those cases?_  


Gabrieli: _I don’t need to prove the negative, I just don’t choose to waste time and brain space on things I can know nothing about. You’re a romantic._  


Linus: _Not at all. We have significant evidence that the first two exist, the third once existed, and the last could have existed. Good enough for me._  


Gabrieli: _Good enough for a romantic._

~∙~∙~∙~

June 18, late evening  


Stephen sat on the cot in his hut, irresolute. It was too late to pursue any of the several concerns on his mind; nevertheless he reached for the laptop.

\- email from linus@gmail.com:

>   
> _About the clip, I have to say that I agree, there must be another variation or even two between the 2M composite and the restatement. I wish I could help more._

> _I’ve been thinking, not without shame, about my fallacious notion that warfare and musical virtuosity are incompatible. Of course they are not, but they do in fact draw on rather different parts of the brain, are favoured by differing focus, pace, habit of body. Social perception endorses this difference: we’re surprised or impressed by a big athletic musician or a small stevedore._

\- email from goldilocks@gmail.com:

> _You see exceptions every day._

\- email from linus@gmail.com:

> _You’re awake, good. I thought it was too late over there._

> _Exceptions, certainly, but those perceptions are built into our history, literature, mythos - experience doesn’t shake them._

> _Do you know William Lawes’ music? Lovely: wit, depth, charm. He spent most of his life in Charles I’s court, as performer and composer. When he enlisted to defend the king, during the Civil War, he was assigned to what was considered a mostly honorary post, the King’s personal guard, because he was valued by Charles as a musician and friend. And then he was killed anyway._

\- email from goldilocks@gmail.com:

> _Did he go down fighting in the last battle, heroically?_

\- email from linus@gmail.com:

>   
> _No, that’s how I would have written it, if he had to die at that time. But alas he was killed in a trivial little skirmish. My point: there’s no reason to think his death is more deplorable than that of any other man or woman, BUT I DO because it precluded the composition of who knows what wondrous music. Equally there is no reason to think his death in battle is more terrible than that in any other manner – except in the article of his personal experience, of course – BUT I DO THINK THIS. Because even though he chose to be there, his place seems to me to have been elsewhere, doing what he did best, not getting killed doing something useless that he wasn’t particularly skilled at._

\- email from goldilocks@gmail.com:

> _I think it’s his right to choose what he did. He wanted to defend his king, out of whatever motives he may have had, loyalty, love, duty, who knows? and was willing to risk his life doing so. Of course it’s sad he died, more sad than that we don’t have his music, in human terms. But his choice._

\- email from linus@gmail.com:

> _I can’t argue with that. But sometimes I listen to the viol consorts and want to weep for the waste of it all._

\- email from goldilocks@gmail.com:

> _Turn on skype, please, if you can get video._

\- email from linus@gmail.com:

> _okay._

‘You look terrible. Don’t you ever sleep?’  


‘Thank you very much. Is that why you asked me to turn this on?’  


‘No, I want to play something for you. I think this is where the second movement goes after the last bit I recorded.’  


Jack played, picking up in the middle of a phrase; after several bars he lifted the bow and stood unmoving, then turned to the webcam.  


‘Well, maybe not. I have to think about it some more. Lie down, why don’t you? I’ll play something else.’  


Stephen looked at him thoughtfully, nodded, then put the computer on the table and stretched out on the cot with a deep sigh.  


Jack adjusted the tuning, then began the lovely air that introduces the Goldberg variations, sounding very sweet and simple on the violin.  


‘Very apt, my friend. I thank you,’ he murmured. Then, yawning, ‘See you tomorrow.’  


The music continued to accompany him as he drifted down, down into peaceful sleep.

~∙~∙~∙~

June 20

Stephen: _Dodgy connection tonight, don’t think it will support skype. Progress?_  


Jack: _I’m working on it right now, the individual entries towards the end of the fourth._  


Stephen: _ok, I will leave you to it. Upload it when you can, of course._  


_And thank you for last night. That was – awesome._  


Jack: _My pleasure. IDGHP ‘)_  


Stephen: _??_  


Jack: _It just means something is very, very good._  


 

Journal entry, 20 June 20--  


> … It was obvious he had been asleep, or at least in bed - it’s three hours later there, after all - but he sounded and looked perfectly calm and alert. It was the curious sensation of the world, too, being gently chided for looking tired, perhaps for being sad, I don’t know, and then sent to bed and soothed into sleep by a very lovely impromptu rendition of the variations. I’m astonished that I actually slept. Music does indeed have charms.

  


  


Putting the journal aside, Stephen logged into FindingLocatelli; there was a new upload. This picked up the fourth movement where the violin, solo now, sank into a whisper; then increasing volume, notes, speed, representing the second violin’s entry, and now Jack humming, for the viola; then his rich, full bass going _pom, pom-pom-pom, poom_ , unmistakably the cello; and driving onward, pointing towards the final resolution.  


  


> I hardly know what to write. It is difficult to believe a single violin and voice can so convincingly sketch a quartet. Over the last weeks I have been gradually brought to believe this is an accurately remembered, genuinely unknown piece he is reconstructing, and that it _may_ be Locatelli, or something like; there are certainly many characteristic touches. But here I surrender. I am converted, I yield: this is the authentic article, genuine Locatelli without a doubt, just as described in that extraordinary passage, and I recognised it with a bit of a frisson. There is something uncanny about it, happily so: as if the composer were speaking from beyond the grave.  
> 
> 
> I have no idea at all what to do about it, save continuing to watch this reclamation, resurrection, whatever it is, and asking for more.

  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


June 24  


Stephen returned to the hut quite late in the evening. He looked into his tiny larder with no interest, then turned on the computer. Seeing that Jack had called - twice - earlier in the evening, he logged into FindingLocatelli, intending to leave a brief message. There was a post from less than an hour previously.  


Jack: _Getting too late to call. I’ll be awake, if you want check in here._  


Stephen: _Sorry, not at my best. Bad bad day._  


Jack responded almost immediately, before Stephen could decide to close it down.  


Jack: _Is it still about Lawes?_  


Stephen : _No, but it is about an innocent who was in the wrong place, at that. An eight-year-old kid, had a compound, comminuted fracture of one leg, and we - I - decided to try to save it. This was more than two months ago, Jack. Today we - I - had to take the leg off._  


Jack: _Is this the same as or different from William Lawes?_  


Stephen: _???? What’s the connection?_  


Jack: _Because it grieves you that something bad happened to someone you care about. You should remember he is probably alive because of you._  


Stephen: _She_  


Jack: _ok, she, too bad she will have to cope with a disability, it’s not perfect, but so much better than dead. She gets to have her future._  


Stephen: _It’s not that simple. Beatriu put up with so many cycles of it seeming to heal and then deteriorating again, so much unnecessary pain and boredom and missed opportunities to do anything better than hang around this fucking place. The only possible excuse for that is if she gets to keep her leg. And she doesn’t._  


Jack: _Did she cry all the time?_  


Stephen: _Oh, no, hardly at all. Less than I would with my tibia in sixteen pieces, probably. She’s a bright little thing, tough as nails, chattering all the time. Very silly of course, little girls are. They giggle, you know._  


Jack: _I know. I have a couple of them. They are tough, and they learn from everything. Maybe it was more important for her to know you people tried really hard to save her leg, rather than just whipping it off, than it was for her to do something else with the past two months._  


Stephen: _… I can’t think of a single thing to say._  


Jack: _Then let me say something. You will no doubt be seeing her again?_  


Stephen: _Of course._  


Jack: _Then find a way to reassure her that she has in no way failed or disappointed you, because I would bet when she grieves her leg that will be part of it._  


_Turn on the skype, will you?_  


  


Stephen hesitated, then complied; he saw Jack peer at him, then nod. 

‘Listen,’ he said, and picked up the violin, never far from his hand. 

Turning slightly away, he played one of the D major consort suites, his eyes closed or carefully fixed on the violin, as Stephen lost and then regained his composure.  


‘But, do you see what I mean?’ he said, as if he had been explaining something. ‘It’s still here, it’s still beautiful. When Lawes was killed, what happened today where you are, one potential future was lost, but not everything. We still have some of his music 370-odd years later, and all his incalculable influence on composers since his time, and she will probably grow up to be a brilliant surgeon or another Picasso or …..’  


‘… or a serial killer, don’t forget. I get it, Jack, and I thank you. It’s sometimes hard to let the world go on in its own way, when I know so much better how it should be.’  


‘Ah, well, that’s a trick, isn’t it.’  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


June 26  


  


Stephen: _… so I said only her courage kept us hoping that we could save her leg, with such a disastrous injury. She brightened at once, such an endearing creature. Thank you for that, Jack._  


Jack: _If you felt proud of her it would have shown anyway, but you were so miserable I thought she might have gotten that instead._

Stephen: _I’m not so sure, there’s a professional reserve I try to maintain. People seem reassured by it, but I could be wrong. In any case I’m grateful for your insight. It must be very agreeable to have daughters at home._

Jack: _They are really delightful, twins. I skype with them and all that and see them when I can. But they are in Africa, I’ve never lived with them. The racing, you know, there were a lot of girls …_

Stephen: _You had groupies! Of course you did._

Jack: _Well, yes, I have to admit …_  


_Their mother and her husband are friends now, I get to visit. Not as much as I would like, of course._  


Stephen: _Difficult._

Jack: _Not as much as you would think. I keep reminding myself that if I were married to their mother I would still not be seeing them all that often, so it’s good they have a stable home and a father who is present._  


_FWIW – bugger, I forgot what I was going to say. I’ve used FWIW for years, it seemed to work in context, and just now when I typed it I thought, ‘From What I ... wait, is remember spelt with a W?’ so looked it up, the acronom I mean. Damn and blast._  


Stephen: _can it be that nobody has ever corrected you on these things before? Where have you been writing?_  


Jack: _Blog_  


Stephen: _I’d like to read your blog._  


Jack: _It’s an internal blog, internal to the ship, I can’t give you access._  


Stephen: _That explains it –who would correct the captain?_  


Jack: _more likely nobody actually reads it. I could copy bits for you, if you like. What would you want to read about?_  


Stephen: _Did you blog when you were sailing that ship around the Southern Ocean, alone?_  


Jack: _No, no time for it. And it was a boat, not a ship._  


  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


Late June – mid July  


  


Journal entry, 11 July 20--

> Over the last weeks we have fallen into a pattern of emails or talking nightly, and playing more times than not. We continue to explore the repertoire we have in common - how grateful I am for online scores - and as we have come to understand one another, musically, we have begun to improvise. Jack excels at this, of course, as I have learned to expect. I am imperceptibly losing my self-consciousness, whether due to use or to some inapparent aspect of Jack’s ever-present consideration I cannot tell. 
> 
> We have been playing the two Locatelli sonatas we both know by heart, without a word of reference to the quartet, for over a week now.

  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


  


July 14  


Well into an evening of music, Jack, who usually proposed the next piece by beginning it, sat quiet for a while, and then said, ‘I won’t say I’m stuck, I’m not, but I need to play the quartet with something other than my computer. Will you try it? Please, Stephen.’  


Stephen hesitated.  


‘If you please, I will, most happily. Soul, I have been playing along with your clips for many weeks now.’  


‘Ah, really? That’s great, let’s play,’ and he turned away, making a bit of business of retuning.  


  


Journal entry, 14 July 20--  


> … so we tried the first movement. It was not a success. I was at my worst, self-conscious and fumbling, appalled at the insensitivity of my confession. Jack barely skipped a beat before his reply, but he cannot lie, even if he had the will - his face is utterly unguarded, and he knows it, the creature - he was clearly taken aback, and he turned away; but before he did so I saw disappointment as well as surprise. How can he have lived this long, doing the things he does, and still believe anyone else could be as ingenuous as he is? Far less his accompanist, who left his own innocence behind so long ago.  
> 
> 
> I had not considered that he might perceive my playing with the clips as evidence of an unwillingness to engage with him in this endeavour, as a lack of candour, as of course it is - the latter, the habitual latter, not the former. 

  


  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


July 15  


Stephen: _Jack, I apologise, unreservedly, if I seem to have failed in the article of candour. I had no such intention. I could not resist the opportunity to play with the clips, but I was so determined not to interfere with what you were doing, I didn’t think it through._  


Jack: _Don’t trouble yourself, I understand. I was just surprised. I had asked before, you know, for you to play it with me, so I guess I’m glad you were doing it even though i didn’t get to hear it._  


Stephen: _You wouldn’t have wanted to hear most of it, anyway. You seem not to understand how powerful your own gift is. You are gracefully sailing away with no apparent effort, and I am far behind, rowing my little dinghy with no great skill._  


Jack: _LMFOA!_  


Stephen: _???_  


Jack: _Oh, come on, that one’s common._  


Stephen: _Well, yes, I have seen it, but so many people misspell it._  


  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


Journal entry, 17 July 20--  


> After that rocky start, we have been doing little else but explore the quartet in the last few evenings. Jack proposes a phrase, usually but not always an established one, and I improvise a cello or continuo part. He never overtly rejects anything, rarely speaks indeed, but he goes back and repeats the phrase, so I try something different. But now I come to write that, I realise he does just the same if he approves it. There is a palpable difference between an unsuccessful attempt and an accepted one, but I cannot tell in what the difference lies. I do look at his face, maybe that is where I find it.  
> 
> 
> The quartet is coming along, indeed. The feeling is growing on me that it is now approaching a correct and tolerably complete framework, in that there are no major themes missing, many of the variations and some of the ornamentation have been settled on to Jack’s satisfaction.  
> 
> 
> It’s extremely gratifying to feel myself a part of this project; by his generosity it is now a fully cooperative endeavour. In addition to supplying the continuo, or some of it, I am able to comment on the historical context, and I get to write out the ever-changing score - I may perhaps be more familiar with music theory, or at least he lets me think so. I am deeply engaged, even dreaming about it on occasion.

  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


July 23

Stephen: _You are getting later. Have you moved? ___  


Jack: _We are in the Bay of Bengal. You don’t have to guess, you know, you could follow us at_ _www.rn.uk/hms-woolhampton_ _._  


Stephen: _Oh. I hadn’t thought of that._  
 _…_  


_Oh, this is strange. It’s beautiful. Magnificent._  


Jack: _Do that later, ok? I know what’s on those pages, after all, I’ve seen the pictures. Taken some of them, even._  


Stephen: _Oh, sorry. It’s fascinating, why didn’t you tell me before?_  


Jack: _It didn’t occur to me._  


_I can make assumptions, too. You have more free time, you get back home earlier?_  


Stephen: _My part in this mission is winding down, yes. I’m handing off duties and orienting my successors. It’s a gradual process._  


Jack: _Then what?_  


Stephen: _I go home and recover for a few months, remember what a normal life is like, see concerts and opera, eat in restaurants. Wear something other than scrubs._  


Jack: _Where’s home?_  


Stephen: _Ireland. Taoibhcoille, in the west._  
 _…_  


Jack: _It must be beautiful._  


_..._  


Jack: _Are you being evasive, or just back at the RN website? I checked into MHC. Not a word about Locatelli._  


Stephen: _Ahh, the latter. It’s a gorgeous ship._  


_About the comm, yes, I know, I go there regularly. The Locatelli debate is long gone. They’re on about early 20th century reproductions of clavichords and harpsichords. They didn’t know enough about them, wrong woods, blah blah, should they be trashed or left out of professional performances?_  


Jack: _Should we do anything?_  


Stephen: _I don’t know. I am very excited about the quartet, but it’s by no means complete, and - I don’t want to subject it to the glare of publicity yet. I think of it as tender and fragile._  


Jack: _Ha ha. I don’t, but I know what you mean. I think of it as something that is being kind enough to reveal itself, and I don’t want to annoy it._  


Stephen: _Yes, that’s it exactly._  


Jack: _I get leave in the fall, a month. I was thinking about going to the Med, Mahon._  


Stephen: _Sure, Mahon is a beautiful place. I know it well._  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


  


July 26  


‘Jack, I will be leaving for home early on the 2nd; there is a vast number, a mountain, of arrangements to complete, so do not - that is, so be aware that I may be silent for a while.’  


‘But you’ll stay in touch?’  


‘Of course I will, never doubt it. There are many more duets to be played, and I shall continue to harass you about the Locatelli quartet.’

  


Journal entry, 26 July 20--

> He sounded dejected, alas. I share his feeling, however, or what I presume it to be. I will resume my life, with all its distractions, and Jack will do the same; it’s possible that this remarkable cooperative effort, this intimacy may not survive the change. Although a friendship of some sort will undoubtedly continue, I will miss this most pleasing endeavour, with this splendid companion; it has been indescribably gratifying, a reminder of a time when I could throw myself wholeheartedly into a conversation, a concert, or indeed a friendship. How I hope he has found an equal pleasure in my company. 

  


  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


  


August 1  


On July 31st, a catastrophic cyclone came ashore in India, in the state of Odisha on the Bay of Bengal, wreaking destruction for almost two whole days before weakening and moving out to sea. On Songwidth, a banner appeared shortly after midnight on August 1st, appealing for donations to any of the humanitarian organisations whose links were listed, MSF among them. 

  


August 1, evening  


Jack: _News flash: we are being sent to Odisha. How long do you need between postings?_  


Stephen received this message in his usual evening location, on the deck, behind him the shambles of his hut, his simple economy reduced to a general disorder containing a few neatly labelled parcels and a shabby pack.  


He closed the lid of his laptop and sat, gazing at the sky as the sun painted a succession of colours above the heights, pale pink at first, then gold, red, black. Eventually the planets and the brighter stars appeared, and still he sat there, unmoving.

  


  


~∙~∙~∙~

  


August 4 , morning

After an impossibly busy two days, rerouting his belongings, contacting MSF headquarters, friends, family and colleagues - but, indecisive, uncertain of his ground, not yet Jack - Stephen found himself at El Prat de Llobregat outside Barcelona, waiting for passage on a Red Cross relief flight to Brahmapur.  


  


TEXT from the airport: _Jack, I am joining the mission. Can you give me dinner when I get there?_  


Jack: _I am so happy. Will you meet us at Brahmapur? Can you bring your cello? We are to pick up supplies and the first of the Hum orgs there – MSF, RC, etc. on Wednesday. As to dinner: A feast, a banquet, and don’t you wish I may let you go again. IDGHP. LOL._

  


\--=ooOoo=--

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt, challenge, beta and IDGHP: the awesome alltoseek
> 
> Cheerleading: JessamyGriffith
> 
> Special consultant: heather_mist
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters are the property of the much-regretted Patrick O’Brian and his heirs, and are borrowed with profound respect and love.
> 
> I’m sure it is obvious that I am not a musician. Those familiar with the repertoire will realise that I generally have them playing violin sonatas, with Stephen shouldering the inglorious (and unlikely for solo cello) burden of continuo. It’s stretching a point to have them do so here, without prior adaptation, but we’ll assume they discussed this at some time.
> 
> Although I have tried for accuracy both as to Locatelli’s extant works and as to how a vaguely remembered piece might be brought back to life, I am sure there are many gaffes. I would appreciate any corrections or observations you might have.
> 
> I had vague hopes of actually figuring out what Patrick O’Brian was describing in that brilliant first passage, a ridiculous hope, of course. I’m inclined to think the piece is a trio sonata with basso continuo whose memory is preserved only in a nameless village in the Pyrenees, visited in the 60’s by POB and more recently by the JA of this AU. 
> 
>  
> 
> About the music:  
> The Locatelli quartet in C major: well, I have said quite enough about it, one way or another.
> 
> J.S. Bach, Goldberg Variations: Written for harpsichord, but there are a plethora of transcriptions, including for solo violin, and quite lovely it sounds, too. It may be argued that it's not truly restful music, but the prevailing mythology has it that the variations were written for Johann Goldberg to play, to beguile the pained, wakeful nights of the ambassador Count Kaiserling, so I couldn't resist putting them here.
> 
> Various sonatas, Locatelli, Corelli, Veracini, Leclair et alia: It’s not strictly speaking appropriate or even possible for two instruments to play them. Not only can a single violin not manage such parts as canons, a continuo consisting of cello alone is implausible at best; but as I was reminded when I worried about other matters, such as Jack's improbably young age for yacht racing, THIS IS AN AU. Writer makes the rules. =)
> 
> Lawes: His consort music is, of course, not playable by one or even two instruments, but it could be epitomised, above all by one with Jack's talents. It is really lovely and very distinctive. I have borrowed a page from the master, in asking Stephen to speak for me about this and maybe a couple of other things.
> 
> About acronyms (or acronoms, as Jack spells it):
> 
> Jack probably thinks LMFOA means ‘leaves me full of amusement’, so it usually fits in the same contexts LMFAO does.
> 
> The rest are self-explanatory, I think, but IDGHP is not.
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, IDGHP is a catchphrase exclusive to the crew of HMS Woolhampton. An officer no longer aboard her used the phrase ‘I don’t get happier, people!’ when pleased, and the crew adopted it as an affectionate lampoon at first, eventually shortening it to the acronym both verbally and in writing. It has become a part of ship’s culture by the time Jack is assigned to her; he gets the sense of it and uses it, probably thinking it’s from the internet; if he has an idea what the letters stand for, he hasn’t told anyone.


End file.
